Our Gravestones
by gravesKeeper
Summary: Single-chapter story. (WARNING: Sadstuck, no dialect and humanstuck headcannons)


_[This story is missing a wishing well_

_No story to show and tell_

_No kiss that can break the sleep_

_I'm falling asleep]_

Gray pillows obscured the heaven's view of the land far below. And from those fluffy masses of condensed water fell a soft white powered that blanketed the earth, tucking her in for the night that was the deadest season everyone knew of.

And the season only added to the deadness of a nearby graveyard. The white, fragile flakes covered the tombstones that were not well kept and aged, making them seem only more forgotten. Not that the people they stood for needed to be remembered by the living.

The frigid air at the gated, rusted entrance was filled by soft, warm puffs humidity. The small billows of air slipped past two jade-colored and pierced lips, which were in turn connected to a young woman.

_[Every prince is a fantasy_

_The witch is inside of me_

_Her poison will wash away the memory]_

Encased in the slender, beautiful maiden's arms was a tied and bundled mixture of pink carnations, cyclamen, purple hyacinths, sweet peas and magenta and yellow zinnias. She seemed to be pausing at the entrance, regally black-gloved hands stroking the petals gently.

She mumbled something in Indian, a sad smile turning her lips upward slightly. Her deeper, jaded eyes glanced over her slender shoulder, looking to the other side of the single-lane road behind her.

A young girl played on a snow covered playground, her short, carrot-top of a head easily noticeable against her green hat and the white of the solidified rain around her. Her skin was a much lighter compared to that of the woman at the crematory and her face was adorned with freckles; however, they did appear to share the same eyes.

The youngster was happily and calmly playing with a young Asian girl with olive eyes and a Middle Eastern, albino boy. Beyond them was another, older boy of Arabic descendent, sitting huddled in a red sweater on a bench, watching them.

As if he could tell she was observing them, the boy on the bench lifted his own pigment-lacking, red eyes to meet those of the woman. He managed a small, reassuring smile, his nose red from the cold.

_[We kill the lights and put on a show_

_It's all a lie, but you'd never know_

_The star will shine and then will it fall_

_And you will forget it all]_

She returned the smile, looking back at the redheaded lass before slowly sliding her green gaze back to the rusty gate before her.

The little girl on the playground was her sister, but called her 'Mom.' Not that she minded; she wouldn't have made a good sister anyway. And the five-year-old across the road didn't need to know the truth.

At least not yet.

_[After midnight we're all the same_

_No glass shoe to bring us fame_

_Nobody to take the blame_

_We're falling apart]_

A sigh hissed out through the woman's ivory teeth, teeth that then bit down firmly on jaded lips while being mindful of the golden ring hooked into the flesh of lower one.

Stepping forward, her high-heeled shoes clicked lowly in her wake as she brushed past the gate and entered the graveyard.

She had to admit, the place looked better blanketed in the immense cluster of snow flakes. The powder seemed to add a sense of cool, steely beauty that radiated off Lady Winter whenever she graced the city with her cold presence.

Finally, she stopped before two solemn, silent markers. Abruptly battering her heavily-lashed eyes to keep the liquid in her tear-ducks from spilling forth, she leaned down and crouched upon her heels, sweater-dress dragging on the ground.

Forcing a very shaky smile onto her face, she bit her lip again and placed the bundle in front of one gravestone.

**Priya Maryam**

** 22 (1970 - 1992)**

** Loving Big Sister, Caring Friend And Wonderful Mother Figure**

_[Every story's a waiting game_

_A flower for every name_

_Their colors are paling in the falling rain]_

The petals looked so pale and frail in the winter air, glistening with condensing ice crystals in the light of dusk.

A shudder ran unwanted through the girl's frame. Her hand shakily reached up into her coat, then withdrew, plucking a primrose from some unseen pocket before laying it carefully down in front of the other grave.

**Gita Maryam**

** 45 (1952 - 1997)**

** Forgiving Woman, Generous Lady And Self-Denying Mother**

_[We kill the lights and put on a show_

_It's all a lie, but you'd never know_

_The star will shine and then will it fall_

_And you will forget it all]_

A tear trickled down one of the girl's brown cheeks, past her trembling lips and sliding off her chin. It hit the snowy cobblestone under her feet, soon followed by others whose warmth dissolved the snow underneath her as she leaned forward.

She spoke to the graves with shaky Indian words, telling them with a sad smile of what she and the little one had accomplished since she had last visited. As she babbled on, she told them how much she missed them and how hard it was raise her little sister in a lie and how she was sorry she had dropped out of school to work three shifts a day. As she continued, she went on about how just how much she wished that they hadn't gone driving that night to get some blizzards from Diary Queen and how she should've just waited 'til morning to make her request, that if she had then they wouldn't have met that driving, lunatic of a drunk on the road and that they still would have been here to help her with everything.

Then, dejectedly, she wiped her face with her leather-clad hands, hiccupping softly as she meekly explained the meaning of the flowers, even though she brought them with her every time she visited and explained their meaning every time, too, before she laughed and asked if there was really anything to live for anymore.

_[Now you know it's so much better to pretend there's something waiting for you here]_

Small hands latched onto the elbow of the young girl's arm, a small, childish voice reaching her ears. It carried a feminize quality and asked in her mother tongue if everything was okay and what was wrong.

Blinking reddened eyes, the dark-skinned girl looked down at her tan sibling, tired deep jade eyes meeting large innocent one eyes.

Forcing a rather believable smile, the older Maryam petted the youngster's clothed head and told her everything was fine and to go play with her friends. The younger girl stared at the woman with slightly narrowed eyes, staring at the oldest for a bit before nodding decisively and hurrying off to whence she came.

_[Every letter that you wrote has found it's way to me, my dear_

_You can make believe that what you say is what I want to hear]_

Looking back at the graves, she simply stared at them. A hand settled on her shoulder and she looked up to see the older Arabic boy standing over her, smiling encouragingly.

She returned her friend's smile, then ignored him as he would most likely start rambling on about how she shouldn't feel too down, that she was doing well at being a mother, that her sister was too young to know the truth yet and that he would always be there to help. Things she simply didn't want to hear right now.

However, to her surprise, he remained silent and his hand slid down her shoulder and took her elbow gently in it's soft palm. Blinking, she turned her tear-stained face toward him as he pulled to her to her feet.

Smiling softly, if unsurely, her friend abruptly hugged her. She blinked her raw feeling eyes, then a weak smile crossed her features as he stuffily held her close, inexperienced in the practice of embracing others because of his oath to celibacy.

_[I'll keep dancing through this delusional career_

_Faking every tear_

_Looking like a compromise suicide]_

Warping her slender arms about him, she pulled him closer. One of her hands slid up and guided his head by the back of it to rest on her shoulder, near the crook of her neck. Then she leaned her cheek against his dark, uncovered locks, closing her eyes as more tears started to roll down her lovely face.

Before she began to shudder and weep, though, the boy in her arms beat her to it. His whole body shook and he cried loudly into her shoulder, her clothes luckily muffling the sound from the ears of any nearby children.

Smiling more sadly and faintly now, she allowed him to cry and contained her own sobs, running her slender fingers through his tousled locks as she murmured soothing, loving nothings into his ear.

_[Keeping all my dreams alive]_

Behind her back, within the boy's sight and unbeknownst to the young woman, sat a lone grave marker, off by itself, behind those of the girl's kin.

**Salah Vantas**

** 20 (1971-1991)**

** Faithful Man, God-fearing Preacher And Patient Father**


End file.
